Gay Gayer Gayest

"That is SO gay!"

I've been thinking about that expression a lot lately. What does it mean? I'm hearing it from kids, on television, and even around my office. Did the expression trickle up from the middle schools? Is it a playground epithet that is simply in vogue with the grown-ups? Or is it a sign that gay culture is so integrated into the pop culture that even the hets now see the evidence of homo-style in their everyday lives, and make jokes about it? And IF gay culture is being mainstreamed to this degree, what does that mean to us?

I put a call out to some fellow bloggers and asked them this:

"What is the GAYEST thing you've EVER done?"

The answers I received were at once predictable and surprising. There were mentions of doing drag, of course. And of pervy, slutty sex...of course. As for the other things...well, they're all listed below. You will love it. Feel free to let us know who YOU think is the MOST gay of the gay. Or contribute your own extra faggy moment in gayness.

(Faithful Readers: There's a special surprise entry from a fabulous non-blogger at the end of the post!)

About three years ago, my best friend and his partner decided to open a sex club. So I wasted an entire weekend helping them set up the maze of walls. I probably spent twelve hours sanding glory holes with an electric sander. Trust me, it's imperative that you get glory holes really smooth.

Mardi Gras, 1993 (I think). I was part of a group costume on the street that day: the New Orleans Female Firefighters (this was the year there was a big court case about women on the fire department there). I, along with a bunch of others, paraded all over the French Quarter in a smart firefighter skirt, helmet, carrying a Dalmation-print handbag and a hose. We performed rescues at various bars; we planted people on the balconies up and down Bourbon Street and when we came by, they'd run to the edge of balcony, scream "Save My Baby!" and toss a baby doll into the street for us to catch in our rescue net (made of a hula hoop and some burlap). Since we were firefighters, we did get to wear sensible flat shoes. It all ended on the stage for the Bourbon Street Awards, outside of the Rawhide bar. We did not win.

When I was living in DC, I skipped a Teen Beat anniversary party — probably the hippest indie-rock event of the year, and I was even on the guest list — to go to an all night Madonna dance party. I was wearing a velvet shirt and made out with two boys during a 20 minute remix of "Material Girl."

Years ago I had a lawyer as an occasional fuck buddy. One afternoon, he had to take a conference call in the middle of our tryst. As he sat on my bed talking in a calmly professional manner, I started to blow him. He went into contortions but kept his voice smooth as silk. When he started to cum, I had him shoot on my chest and abs. He finished the call not even breathing hard and I spread his cum all over me and let it dry. I wore it for the rest of the day and to the opera that night.

When I was twelve, me and my brother, my mother, her lesbian lover and her lesbian lover's two kids went on a road trip around the East Coast, and all along the way, at every gift shop, I collected unicorn stickers. You'd be surprised how many places, in 1983, sold unicorn stickers. I didn't come out of the closet for another six years, but I don't know who I thought I was kidding.

Several years back, I (already completely jaded and restlessly seeking dick-inspiration) decided to road test some flavored essential oils that I had purchased earlier that day at The Body Shop in Montreal. I got a room at The St. Marc (my favorite of the 14 bath houses of Montreal), and applied the vanilla oil to my left nip and the strawberry oil to my right nip. I strode into the crowded upstairs playroom wearing the requisite thin white towel, and my signature thick grey sox and black work boots (everyone's signature in that place. God, we were such nuns). Since it is not uncommon for my chest to attract the hungry, several testers registered within seconds their approval of both applications, but left me with a markedly more intense soreness on the vanilla side. Later, I applied anise (licorice) oil to my crotch and entered the dry sauna to induce some sweat into the mix. Since I have but one dick, the results of that test were inconclusive.

Okay I've thought about this but I don't know if there is just one defining over-the-top gay moment in my life. However, my first relationship with a woman had many stereotypical attributes: We had sex while Sarah MacLachlan, Jewel, Fiona Apple and Natalie Merchant provided the soundtrack (on a themed mix-tape I lovingly crafted just for the occasion.) Furthermore, each week we wrote each other schmoopie poems that were epic in length (but not quality). We were nauseating. Even our phone sex involved tender foreplay and cuddling afterwards. Since that ended, I've become, quite possibly the worst lesbian ever. A woman invited me to a yoga chanting circle and I had to stop myself from laughing in her face. I'm afraid of cats, own nary an Indigo Girls CD and I've never watched even five minutes of a WNBA game. However, I still play softball where I swing for the fences and slide safely into bases. I own a Craftsman cordless drill and know how to use it.

While cruising on Hampstead Heath dressed in my best skinhead gear, a leather rubber queen came crawling out of the bushes, handing me his riding crop and beseeching me to beat the crap out of him. I duly obliged (mummy taught me to never say no the queen) he kept murmuring: "Nazi Boy! Nazi Boy!" When I got back home and relayed the story, my (black) flatmate was rolling on the floor, and the epithet was his nickname for me from now on. True story!

Lady Bunny and I rode an elephant down a New York City street in the middle of a January snow storm. I was wearing only a pair of white Calvin Klein underwear and police boots, she was decked out in a Halston, that once belonged to Agnes Morehead. Out of our minds high on a whopper hit of Ecstasy, we lost the circus trainer/guide somewhere downtown, and couldn't steer the damn animal towards the nightclub, let alone parallel park it for her 3 A.M. appearance. After circling the block a few times we finally got it to slow down near our destination, the club doors opened as the strains of Sylvester's Do You Wanna Funk came pouring out. Leigh Bowery looking like a shattered disco ball stormed out and wrestled the naughty pachyderm down long enough for us to fall into a snow drift.

Joe @ Joe.My.God.

I did cocaine in a South Beach disco with Grace Jones while a drunken drag queen wrote "LOVE ME" on my back in lipstick, while the Village People were on stage performing YMCA. I had on combat boots and daisy dukes. My chest was shaven.

There was a door prize raffle at the Halloween Party at work this year. I won a fabulous autumn floral arrangement and let out a big, high-pitched girly squeal when my number came up. I was more delighted with the arrangement than those who had won round-trip tickets to Cancun. I'm easy that way.

For my tenth birthday, I asked my father for the Village People's "Go West" album, my mother and step-father for Abba's "Arrival" LP, and my grandmother for Barry Manilow's 2-album opus, "Live." I was thrilled when I got them all. Thirteen years later, all three were shocked when I came out to them. When they would get uppity about my gayness, I would blame them and their faggy birthday presents.

Leif @ LHW773@aol.com

A couple of weeks ago I was in a San Francisco store that sells Dungeon Beds. Large, steel frames with a burnished petina. A sling hung from one of the beds but the chain was new, shiny links. I asked if they could darken the chain to match the bed and not clash. Somehow they thought it was the gayest thing they'd heard all week.

My partner was on the phone with uber-gay Charles Nelson Reilly when he got beeped by call waiting. On the other line was super-uber-gay Rip Taylor. He started to laugh and said, "How gay is this moment? We have the two biggest queens in Hollywood on hold."

Picture it: 1986, travelling round the world with my first boyfriend. We spent a few days with his elderly aunt in a 'smart' English speaking town outside Montreal (Knowlton). One day she decided to give us a tour of the area in her big 'ol 1960's car. I sat in the back seat alone during the scenic drive and discovered a lovely silk Hermes headscarf and some horn-rimmed sunglasses. Naturally I couldn't resist donning the scarf and glasses and began waving regally to people we passed. That car was so big that my BF and his aunt sitting up front had no idea what I was up to. As we progressed through the lovely town of Knowlton at 20mph I was waving majestically at everyone who would look at us. I was so engrossed in my regal acts that I didn't notice the car stop and that's when two ladies stuck their heads through the drivers window and were introduced to us - "this is my nephew and in the back seat is his friend Dave". I turned crimson and waved back at them timidly. I'm quite sure those old ladies thought it was Audrey Hepburn in Roman Holiday. I thought I looked like this, but judging by the ladies looks I looked more like this.

The one and only time I did drag, I went to the birthday party of one of the biggest drag queens in Chicago. Everyone - from the men to the women, the straight and the gay - was in drag. Except for the guest of honor. He thought he was going to a meeting about a show he was producing. When he got off the elevator and saw everyone there in outrageous costumes, he thought he was in the wrong room. And then he started to notice faces. It was absolutely priceless. I was dressed in a blue sequined gown with a huge blonde wig. And heels. For the love of God, HEELS. I looked like Bea Arthur on crack. I'm not a pretty girl, and the experience confirmed to me that I definitely enjoy being a boy.

So there we are, me and the Life Partner, strolling into town yesterday evening, and it's his birthday, and I've just given him (amongst otherthings) a beautiful Roman wine amphora dating from around the 2nd-4th century A.D, and a glossy coffee-table picture book which contains a photo-spread of the architect-designed house that (having visited twice) we are seriously considering buying, and we're discussing the new garden in our second home in the country which has just been designed by the guy who's doing Princess Diana's memorial garden, and I'm wearing Yohji Yamamoto and Martin Margiela, and we're on our way to have dinner at one of the city's top boutique hotels, where their newly appointed head chef is coming in specially to cook a surprise menu for the two of us (pea soup with poached egg, parmesan & black truffles, foie gras with scallops and wild mushrooms, sea bass with salmon topped with crab tortellini), and I ask you (and I asked him): "Can we get any more Elton Bleedin' John and David Soddin'Furnish than this?"

Probably the gayest thing I ever did was when I had the Coming Out Talk with my mom while we ate lunch in a Jewish delicatessen in Times Square right before she took me to see a Gershwin musical revival on Broadway. She asked if she mothered me too much, or if I'd ever been touched by a priest.

Whenever I enter someone's home, I take in the surroundings, then mentally redecorate everything from the flooring to the paint or wall-covering, plants, art, lighting and furniture. I've actually done both my parents' and my sister's condos. Sorry that's the best I can do, but it is pretty fucking gay.

Dressed in a suit jacket, matching knee lengh shorts, white bobby socks and black patent leather shoes, my best friend and I went to a gay club in Kansas City to see the return of Boy George. We watched him while he was so cracked out, giving the worse performance of his life. I turned around and lo and behold there was Barry Manilow behind us with his bodyguards. I shrieked as I ran towards him, only for him to have me pushed away by Thor The Protector. We flipped Barry the bird and went and ordered a cocktail.

While at Pensacola for Memorial Weekend. I was walking up and down the beach with my Glamour Boys, we were 9 strong all in custom made stars & strips swimsuits, mine was a speedo style, of course. I was conducting and filming fabulous interviews for Boy TV when we happened upon a Priscilla Queen of the Desert amazing tent and giant shoe set up. The queen who'd put together this spectacular display said, "The cotton is high, we spending big, hateful props out the barn."

She then quickly dressed me in a tight stretchy neon peach tube top style dress with feathers at the top and bottom, and put a matching peach feather headdress on me. I climbed the ladder and got on top of the 12ft giant open-toed pump and waived to the crowds and helicopters above, then proceeded to hold on to my headpiece and gracefully slide down the pump, emerging from the open toe to thunderous applause!

The pump and beautiful yellow and pink satin tent made the cover of the paper the next morning.

Top that for gay! And of course I have it all on film, the "Barbie Tour" complete with our Barbie decorated rented van.)